


Old Habits Die Hard

by rustyliver



Series: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, F/F, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustyliver/pseuds/rustyliver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medical school was supposed to be the phase of her life where she would begin her surrender to normal. </p>
<p>Except two weeks into it, she is already missing a class to stalk the guy whose drivers license she found in Root’s coat pocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Habits Die Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Contains violence, mentions of rape, and dismemberment of body parts

The first time she sliced into skin—only the skin and nothing else—was in seventh grade. Her lab partner fainted as soon as he touched the frog with their shared scalpel—yes, touched; he hadn't cut into anything yet—while at the bench two rows behind her, there is a girl whose hand shook so hard, she decimated her frog's heart at first stab.

It isn't very different from medical school. There are still sweaty foreheads and shaking hands. Sameen just has three more lab partners than she did in middle school, and she is dissecting a person, well, a dead person instead of a frog that went to sleep not knowing it was never going to wake up.

It's funny how this is called an education, but god forbid you do it in your backyard on animals that were about to die anyway. Your mom will send you to a therapist because she's afraid that you might turn into a serial killer.

Mom wasn't wrong though, if being a serial killer consists of helping your friend get rid of bodies and not so occasionally ending someone's life when bleeding them out took too much time or caused too much suffering.

But Sameen doesn't do that anymore. Healing and killing just seem like very contradictory things, so when she got into med school, she decided to stop.

The night she told Root about her decision, they were standing over a woman who had a habit of poisoning her family members. Apparently it's the only way she could think of to get them to spend more time with her.

If only it hadn't killed two of her sons, one granddaughter, and all four of her husbands.

Root had chuckled at Sameen's announcement.

"You may not have my thirst," she said as she waved a hand over the woman's eyes to check if the arsenic she had forced into the woman's throat had kicked in. "But old habits die hard." She nodded towards the woman who kept staring upward, not seeming to notice Root's hand passing back and forth right in front of her. "Ask her."

Sameen volunteers to take the first cut. She won't have someone fainting before she gets to test the skills she has worked on her whole life. No more pausing and rewinding and playing and pausing a video on her phone while she's deep in someone's chest. There is a qualified person in this room who can actually comment on her technique and tell her how she can improve it. But if someone faints, there will be a commotion and that means a delay, and she simply can't have that.

She's been waiting for this her whole life, and she won't wait another second.

"You have very steady hands," Professor Bane comments as he passes by Sameen's autopsy table. He squeezes in between two of Sameen's lab partners who are standing on the left side of the table. Adjusting his glasses, he examines her handiwork. "I'm guessing you want to be a surgeon."

"There are other ways to put a scalpel into use," Sameen replies, concentrating hard on her next cut.

"Of course," the professor says. "It's good to keep your options open."

It's not what Sameen meant, but she grunts an agreement.

...

Her phone is ringing.

She's pretty sure it's at least 2 AM so it cannot be ringing.

But there it goes, ringing. Still.

"What?" she barks into her phone when it becomes clear that it will not stop ringing.

"Hey, sweetie…"

Of course.

"No."

"I haven't—"

"No."

"Just hear—"

"No."

The line goes quiet, but only very briefly.

"Sameen, please."

"Root." Sameen sighs, burying half her face into a pillow, and mutters wearily through the corner of her mouth, "We talked about this."

"Sure," Root replies. "You want to be a doctor and for some reason that means you can't kill people anymore, and that is…" Root pauses, inhaling deeply before expelling a barely sincere, "fine. But I'm bleeding in a dumpster in a pretty sketchy neighbourhood, so could you please come get me?"

.

"I can't believe you!"

Sameen found Root in the dumpster five seconds from death.

"I knew you'd fix me," she says and attempts to grin, forgetting the large cut on her cheek. She winces, and Sameen would have found it funny if she isn't still fuming at Root's complete disregard for her own life.

When blood is gushing out of your gut and there's only one phone call you can make before you lose consciousness, you call 911, NOT your roommate who is barely a medical student. And even if you have to call your roommate for fear of getting caught for whatever criminal thing you were doing, you DON'T downplay your injuries like you merely scraped your knee.

“I did what I can,” Sameen says. “But I don’t know about the damage in here.” She flicks Root's forehead at the only spot on her face that isn't covered in blue.

Root flinches, but then makes another attempt at a shit eating grin as she rubs her forehead. It's shaky and Sameen almost tells her to stop trying so hard.

"Oh, I'm afraid no doctor can fix that, " Root shrugs, and hisses when she's reminded of her still raw newly set shoulder, but she goes on, "but maybe you can kiss it better?"

.

Their apartment is a two bedroom—something that Sameen insisted upon—but since Sameen decided to quit murder, the second room has turned into a storage room with things—most of them pointy—all over the floor .

It hasn't escaped Sameen's attention, but she hasn't brought it up because reasons.

(The main reason being that murder seemed to be the thing they shared and how they connected, but when Sameen decided to stop, they don't see each other as often anymore. So when Root crawls under her covers late at night, she grunts and grumbles, but she never kicks Root out of her bed.)

So tonight, like most other nights, Root sleeps on Sameen's bed. Sameen doesn't join her even though four hours ago she would have killed for an uninterrupted sleep—achievable now that Root is knocked out by the oxycodone Sameen gave her—but she sits at her study, pretending to catch up on the reading that she is very much caught up on.

Once in awhile, her eyes would stray toward the rise and fall of Root's chest, and a sort of relief hits her. When she found Root stationary in that dumpster, eyes closed and barely breathing, she swears her heart stopped.

She must have reconsidered her decision to quit her mostly nocturnal hobby a thousand times because that image, almost exactly, kept flashing in her mind every time she closed her eyes. Seeing Root like that was worse than all those nightmares combined.

The pencil in her hand breaks and it cuts through her palm, but she barely reacts to the pain—she doesn't even remember holding it.

It just pisses her off more.

...

During her sophomore year in high school, Sameen’s AP Biology teacher suggested that she met a friend of his who was a college professor. He had sensed her boredom in class.

Which was surprisingly perceptive of him for someone who barely looked away from the board when teaching. She had pretty much covered all the things that he had been teaching in his class by freshman year—the upside of having virtually no friends and mostly unaffected by hormones that plagued so many of her peers.

The meeting had gone well. The professor was so impressed by her that she said if Sameen was willing to take the SATs, she would write a recommendation letter for Sameen’s enrollment to her university.

Sameen had briefly considered it. She even told her therapist about it. Which turned out to be a mistake because Dr Herman didn’t like the idea. She said that Sameen needed to be in an environment that would allow her to be a normal kid, and a fifteen year old in college is a huge leap away from normal.

The night after that appointment with Dr Herman, Sameen sneaked out to a party just to show the therapist how normal she could be.

(She said she was mostly unaffected by hormones.)

If there was something about high school that she didn’t dislike, it was the parties.

They had dancing and booze, and horny teenagers were easy to charm even if they can’t look her in the eye under daylight.

The party was at one of the band geeks’ house so imagine her surprise when she walked in and saw Root and her posse of cheerleaders among the sweaty drunk attendees. Sameen found herself drifting towards Root who was absently swaying her hips to the catchy tune blasting through the speakers. It was a bad idea, she told herself, but her feet kept moving towards Root. She couldn’t stop herself.

Fortunately, a cute boy in her history class had tapped her shoulder, snapping her out of the hypnotic hold that Root (previously Sam) had on her. He had asked her if she wanted to dance with him.

She didn’t make a habit of going for the ones with dopey grins and hopeful eyes—they’re harder to get rid—but that night, she had something to prove, so why not the nice normal boring boy who offered to lend her a pen that one time?

He ran off to the bathroom to puke his guts out before she could even unzip her pants.

So that’s one reason.

She was adjusting her bra when Root stumbled into the room.

“I heard you’re leaving,” Root slurred.

“How did you—” Sameen shook her head. “You know what? I don’t care.”

She hastily put on her hoodie and made a move for the door, but Root had clumsily blocked her path.

“I do,” Root muttered quietly.

It would have been so easy for Sameen to push her away. Root was barely holding herself up in her drunken state.

“You won’t mean that tomorrow,” Sameen had returned instead, not minding the edges in her words. She crossed her arms and waited, her raised eyebrow daring Root to tell her she’s wrong.

Root just stepped aside.

“That’s what I thought,” Sameen said coldly before resuming her journey to the door.

“But I’ll still miss you.”

It was barely above a whisper so Sameen pretended to not hear her and left the room.

The next day, she informed Mr Harris that she’s fine with high school.

(The keyword here is mostly. She mostly wasn’t affected by teenage stupidity.)

.

Six years later, she is still an idiot.

She told herself when Root had somehow tricked the school’s computer system into making them roommates that the serial murder thing will be an extracurricular activity reserved only for college (because isn’t college about exploring your interests and trying out stuff that you wouldn’t do as a responsible adult?), and since she already had a pretty solid grasp on all the courses she would need on her transcript to apply for medical school, thanks to Mr Harris and his professor friend, it wouldn’t be too hard to devote herself to it.

Medical school was supposed to be the phase of her life where she would begin her surrender to normal.

Except two weeks into it, she is already missing a class to stalk the guy whose drivers license she found in Root’s coat pocket.

He wasn’t hard to find. Sameen remembers seeing him every Tuesday morning making his way into the economics department building. After asking around for about half an hour, she was pointed to a bar three miles away from campus.

It was 2 PM, but when Sameen pointed out the time, the grad student she talked to said that he just likes to do work there. He doesn’t necessarily drink when he goes to the bar.

Just not today.

He is currently sitting two stools away from Sameen tossing back his third beer.

He looks almost as bad as Root.

When his glass empties, the bartender immediately refills it and points towards Sameen.

He nods at her appreciatively. “I’m not really looking for company.”

“Your night was that bad, huh?” she asks.

“You should see the other guy.”

A low guttural sound scratches at Sameen’s throat. “I did actually.”

The guy’s head turns sharply towards her, his eyes dark. “You should tell me where he is then.”

She hops off her stool and walks towards him, sliding her glass along on the bar.

“You mean she?”

“She?” His face barely changes but there is a squiggle of confusion in between his eyebrows if you look carefully. Not that it matters. “Who—”

She smashes her glass on his head.  

“What the fuck!” he cries out.

“That’s for hitting my girlfriend,” she answers casually. The ‘girl’ before ‘friend’ barely registers in her brain and when it does, she shoves it to the back of her mind easily.

“I did not hit your girlfriend,” the guy says.

It’s obviously a lie and Sameen is tempted to break another glass on his head, but the nearest glass is nearer to him than her. He notices her eyeing it and quickly moves it further away from her.   

Then something that looks like realization crosses his face. “Shit,” he mutters. “Is your girlfriend tall with brown hair and a really creepy smile?”

She nods while calculating in her head how fast she can get to the bowl of nuts behind the bar. She is more interested in the bowl than the nuts. It looks heavy enough to make a dent on a human skull.

“It’s a funny story actually...“

.

She doesn’t laugh when he finishes the story.

“Let me get this straight,” she stops walking. “So you bashed a guy’s head in, thought he died even though you didn’t check his pulse, went to bury him in the woods, and found my—” she remembers to correct herself before ‘girlfriend’ comes out again, “Sam there, also burying someone else, but it turns out your guy isn’t dead. He knocked you out and when you came to, they were both gone? And he’s a fucking serial rapist!” She has the urge to smack his head upside down but that would require her to tip on her toes and that’s just undignified. “You let a fucking serial rapist get his hands on my—” her breath hitches. “Sam.”

She settles for a solid knock to his gut.

He doubles over, groaning. “Could you stop doing that?”

“Beth’s diner. 9 PM,” she fishes his drivers license out of her coat pocket. “This is your current address?”

He nods.

She puts the license back into her pocket.

“See you, John.”

.

Root is watching TV when Sameen bursts into the door of their apartment. It’s a rare sight. Root is often too busy planning and stalking her next kill to leisurely laze on a couch.

“You’re home,” Root says, and Sameen feels her heart weighed down by dread hearing the subtle relief in Root’s tone.      

Sameen plops herself down on the couch next to Root. Root reaches out, putting her arm around Sameen, pulls Sameen close and lays her head on Sameen’s shoulder.

“Don’t you have class?”

“I do.”

Root doesn’t ask why she isn’t there. She just mutters softly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

.

It’s their fourth Masterchef Junior episode when Sameen asks, “What happened last night, Root?”

“I took care of it,” Root answers simply.

“How?”

Sameen doesn’t push. She often is just along for the ride. She doesn’t ask questions. She’s always just there to do what needs to be done.

But that is the problem, isn’t it?

She wasn’t there last night.

“I cut off his penis,” Root says, staring at the TV like it’s most fascinating thing in the world when all it’s showing is the end credits.

“Then?”

“I didn’t stay to find out.”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it but I just need to know,” Sameen says after a moment of silence. Root’s eyes are still fixed on the TV. “Is the asshole still alive?”

Root shrugs, “I would have done worse…” She pauses as if distracted by the animated raccoon on the screen. “But someone saw us.”

...

“We have a problem.”

John says it before she has the chance to.

“A cop came to my apartment,” he explains. “They asked about Henry.”

Who the fuck is Henry?

“He’s the guy I—“

“Didn’t kill,” she finishes for him. “Right.”

“Look,” he exhales, “I messed up and I’m sorry but it’s not like I’ve done it before…” he pauses, appearing to think hard on something before asking, “Not like you?”

Sameen doesn’t answer. She just waves to the waitress.   

“Hey, Jenny,” Sameen greets when she comes to their table.

“Coffee and pancakes?” Jenny asks.

Sameen nods and John looks at his watch.  

“At least I don’t drink at two in the afternoon,” she mutters.

“You know,” John replies, plastering a smile for Jenny, “that I had a really bad night.”

“Aww,” Jenny coos. “I’ve had a few of those too and I gotta say sometimes day drinking is the thing you need.”

“Night drinking is fun too,” John says, “with company.”

Sameen clears her throat. “Do you want to order something?” she asks, hoping that it would end whatever gross thing that is happening before her. She doesn’t shit where she eats, and she finds someone else shitting on the place where her favourite pancakes are made as repulsive.  

“Just coffee,” John says.

“Still hungover, huh, buddy?”

John narrows his eyes at her. “You’re drinking coffee too.”

“Not because I drank like ten beers.”

“I didn’t drink that much,” John protests.

“Didn’t you?”

“O-kay,” Jenny interjects. “That’s two coffee and,” her pen points toward Sameen, “pancakes for you.”

The flush she had when John said that line about drinking has all but cleared.

Sameen nods contentedly.

“Focus,” she says when Jenny leaves. “You can’t be thinking of your dick when the cops are after you.”

“They’re not,” is John’s curt reply.

“And the cops came to your apartment because?”

“A girl Henry raped reported him.”

“So they’re after him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And,” Sameen leans forward and rests her chin on her knuckles, “why would the cops come to you if they’re looking for him?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”John says. “He’s my roommate.”

“John,” Sameen sighs, burying her face in her palms. “You’re killing me.”

.

She is sure John isn’t dumb.

She thinks, if the two hours she’s spent with him told her anything, that he just doesn’t think things through. Like how he smashed his roommate's head into a wall when his roommate insisted on dragging a passed out woman into his bedroom.

John’s tendency to rush his decisions often goes very very wrong, but he claims that he always fixes his mess.

She’s still waiting on that.

.

John delivers.

Pizzas and a way for her to sneak into Henry’s room.

“We didn’t order any pizza,” one of the nurses says.

He pretends to check his phone. “This is ward F6?”

“It sure is,” the nurse says.

“Then these pizzas are for you. They’re all paid for.”

Those two magic words and all the nurses and doctors in the ward swarm the station. He makes a face at her and she thinks it's his 'works every time' face. She's not sure—he's not exactly the most expressive person she's met.

Henry stirs at the click of the door when she closes it, but he doesn't wake up.

Shame.

She doesn't want him to think that he's dreaming.

The upside is she could cuff him to the bed without much struggle.

The roll of gauze she's stuffing into his mouth is halfway in when he wakes up with a violent jerk, coughing when she pushes the gauze deeper. Then she stuffs another just in case.

"Pretty sure you can spit that out with some effort," she says, two fingers still pressed firmly on the gauze. "And I'm not going to use anything to keep them in because we need to talk, but," she takes out the pocket knife in her jacket with her other hand and presses it to his jugular, "if you make a sound..."

He nods slowly.

She lifts her fingers off his stuffed mouth.

"Take your time," she tells him. "We have all night."

.

"You got the wrong idea."

“So you didn’t put a knife in my friend’s stomach, beat on her face until it’s all blue, and twist her arm so hard that her shoulder dislocated?”

“Okay, I did all that but only because she’s crazy.”

“Calling her crazy doesn’t help your case.”

“She fucking cut off my penis.”

“That happened before or after you took out your dick?”

“No, I’m not that kind of guy,” he tries to wave his hands, clinking the handcuffs against the bed rails. “I don’t rape women. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Your roommate has a different idea.”

“He had the wrong idea too. I was just taking that girl up to my room to take care of her.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine, we were gonna do some stuff.”

“We?”

“Yes, we.”

“Your roommate told me she was unconscious. There is no we in that. Just you.”

“Well, she started it.”

“It’s never your fault, is it, Henry?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” he sputters. “Those other girls...you can think whatever you want to think, but whatever that is, I swear didn’t do to your friend.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Because the only things attaching my penis to me are stitches, that’s why!” he exclaims, and Sameen presses the knife deeper into his neck, piercing the skin slightly, to remind him the need for his inside voice.

“But that’s because you attacked my friend,” Sameen says. “We’re just going around in circles now, Henry.”

“Look,” Henry swallows, “just imagine you’re in my shoes for a second...just for a second,” he repeats when Sameen shakes her head. “You woke up in the woods after your roommate rammed your head into a wall like ten times and you don’t know why you’re still alive. But you see a shovel and your roommate’s distracted so you paid him back for what he did to you. Then you look up and there’s a woman, wide-eyed staring at you. You don’t know this woman. For all you know she’s in on it, and you can’t exactly drive so you point the shovel at her and tell her to drive you back to the city. You dozed off maybe for a second and when you open your eyes, you’re in this back alley and the woman’s trying to take the shovel away from you. Again, you don’t know this woman. You don’t know what she can do to you. So you react accordingly.”

“How about the knife? You didn’t have to stab her.”

“It was a complete accident. She kept coming at me.”

“She kept coming at your fist?”

“It sounds insane...but she’s—”    

“Watch it,” Sameen warns.  

“Fine. She was coming at me because she’s not crazy,”  he says, barely hiding his disdain. “But I always carry this pocket knife in my back pocket and I just wanted her to stop...but the second the knife’s in, I knew it was a mistake…I just wanted her stop.”

“Then?”

“She took the knife out of her stomach and…” he makes a snip gesture with his hand. “I mean it didn’t happen right away. She stabbed me a few times before—” he winces. “I’m telling you, that chick...she’s batshit—”

Sameen gives him a warning stare.

“She’s batshit nothing, but do you see my problem here? I was just trying to defend myself.”

“Oh, I see your problem.”

…

Root picks up at the first ring.

She always picks up at the first ring.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Sameen tells her.

“You called,” Root replies, the sleep not quite gone from her voice. She doesn’t supply a further reason, and Sameen can’t help but roll her eyes.

She’s not sure how this happened.

She’s not sure how they happened.

They never talked about it beyond Root’s usual teasing. They are just content with living in the moment and never cared to find out.

The not-talking does have its flaws—like in sophomore year, when Sameen was head over heels for this boy Tomas; Root somehow always knew when they were together and would call Sameen (and Sameen absolutely didn’t have to pick up but she picked up) and whispered things that got Sameen all red and wordless, but it only made Sameen more determined to make it work; that is until Tomas graduated and asked her to go to Barcelona with him—but talking just always seemed so unnecessary.

“What’s up?” Root asks.

“I’m sorry,” Sameen expels in one breath.

“Why?”

“The guy who hurt you, I’m with him.”

“Sameen…” Root says. She sounds disappointed and it feels strange because Sameen isn’t usually at this end of a guilt trip.  

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Really? Not a single cut on his neck.”

“Okay, there might be one tinny tiny one but that’s it.”

“Uh-huh. Is he conscious?”

“No, but I only did it to shut him up.”

“Why?”

“I may have ripped off his dick.”

“Sameen!”   

“He’s an asshole.”

The line goes quiet.

“Root?”

She knows ultimately it is Root’s vengeance and she has no right to take it away, but the police were after the asshole and there’s a chance that he might be locked away where neither Root nor Sameen can get to him for a long time, so she wanted to maybe leave some scars on him that he can't forget in the meantime.

But she didn’t plan on going this far.  

“He is an asshole,” Root says after an unbearable five seconds of silence.

“So you’re okay with it?” Sameen asks, holding off her relief.

“It’s actually kind of sweet.”

The relief quickly turns into irritation. “Stop.”

“Could you bring it back home?”

“Root, if you think we’re gonna keep a penis in the apartment—”

“Just for a few days,” Root says in an almost hum, unaffected by Sameen’s disgust. “You did a very sweet gesture for me and I want to commemorate it.”

“Like pictures?” Sameen asks. “Wait, please tell me you’re not going to stuff it.”

“Hmm, I didn’t think of that but let’s put a pin on it.”

“Let’s not.”

“Sameen,” Root says, and without even seeing it Sameen knows, just from the tone, the kind of devious smile curling her lips. “You owe me.”

Sameen sighs. “Fine, you get to keep it for three days—”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Deal,” Root beams.

“Then we get rid of it.”

There is an unconvincing hum of agreement before the line goes dead.

Sameen dials John’s number on her phone.

“John, is there any way you could get me an ice box?”

...    

“Oh hi, Sam,” Jenny happily greets Root. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. For a second I thought you guys were having problems.”

“Nope,” Root shakes her head. “No problem. Actually, Sameen did this really romantic thing for our five year anniversary, but of course she didn’t remember it.”

Sameen just grunts, pretending to read the menu even though she already knows what she’s ordering.

“So she did it just because?” Jenny asks.

“Mmmhmm,” Root nods.

“That’s even more romantic,” Jenny cheers. “What did she get you?”

“It’s kind of a secret,” Root answers in a low voice.

“That kind of present, huh?” Jenny says, smiling scandalously.

Root winks with both her eyes and Sameen snorts.

It gets her a playful slap on the shoulder. “Oh, you.”

The not-talking rule hasn’t changed—it’s just something they do at the diner because everyone who works there seems to be huge fans of their ‘relationship’, and if it gets Sameen free pancakes sometimes, she doesn’t see the harm in it.

“No, it’s adorable,” Sameen says, barely withholding her sarcasm at ‘adorable’.

Root pretends to roll her eyes and gives a look of ‘see what I have to deal with?’ to Jenny.

Jenny chuckles. “Pancakes for both of you, on the house.”

“What about me?”

They all turn their heads to the new visitor.

“I’m afraid the free pancakes are only for people celebrating their belated anniversary,” Jenny says coldly and leaves without taking John’s order.

Sameen squints her eyes at him as he takes a seat opposite Root and her. “What did you do?”

“Don’t worry,” John says dismissively and when it fails to get Sameen to stop glaring at him, he adds, “You’re still getting your free pancakes, aren’t you?”     

Root shakes her head. “You don’t mess with her pancakes.”

John smirks, but his smile falters when Root keeps her stern expression.

“Hello again, Sam,” John says, holding out his hand.

Root doesn’t take it.

“She prefers Root,” Sameen tells him.

“Sameen!” Root squeals.

“He might as well call you by your real name if he’s going to be your partner,” Sameen says.

Root huffs. “Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”

“Of course you can,” Sameen tells her. She knew that she’ll be met with some opposition. “But I’d sleep better if I know there’s someone watching your back, and I can’t exactly do that with my schedule.”  

“He can’t even tell if someone is really dead.”

“We already went over that, right John?” John nods. “He’s going to make sure to check a person’s pulse before he tries to bury them from now on.”

“That’s reassuring,” Root mutters unhappily.

“Hey,” Sameen says, brushing the hair on Root’s forehead to the side.  “Just try him out for your next target, and if you don’t like it, you can go back to working alone.”

Root almost nods, but then shakes her head. “I know what you’re doing,” she says.

“You’re right,” Sameen admits, “but please…” she draws the word out even though every instinct she has is rebelling against it. “For me.”

Root sighs, pouting, but then says, “Fine, but the second he screws up...”

“I won’t,” John says in his most reassuring tone.

“He won’t,” Sameen echoes.

...

To say that Root and John’s partnership in crime starts off rough is an understatement. There have been too many nights when Root comes home calling John some complicated insult like Austrolopithecine and Sameen had to do a little convincing in their bedroom (yes, it’s their bedroom now—med school is too tiring for her to go on pretending that she doesn’t require Root’s company at night) to ensure that the partnership doesn’t crumble.

But after awhile, Root starts to warm up to John even though she refuses to admit it, and suddenly one day, Sameen comes home to find the two of them on the couch watching Masterchef Junior while discussing explosives.

It’s unsettling to see them like that, mostly because they come up with the most destructive harebrained ideas there are, and Sameen has to wonder sometimes if putting the two of them together was actually a bad idea.  

But at least it makes it easier for her to fall asleep on nights when Root doesn’t come home, and she thinks that’s good enough for now.    

 

 


End file.
